


For The Night That's In It.

by Spocksandshoes



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Married Life, Post-Canon, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:16:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6489460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spocksandshoes/pseuds/Spocksandshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the night, the endless ennui fit Arthurs' mood. With the lights off, flat only lit by glowing screens, he felt productive. Being awake during the day was nothing short of uncomfortable.<br/>Eames had been a morning person. Relentlessly cheerful, too-perky, doling-out-coffee-and-chatting-by-himself-til-Arthur-was-awake, sort of morning person. </p><p>Without him in the flat, days felt like waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For The Night That's In It.

The nights in Seattle were something else. 

In the dead of the night when the stream of traffic blended together til it looked like it had slowed to a crawl far below the condo. When the phones beep-beeped, their noise and lights cutting through the quiet of the apartment. When the laptop whirred quietly in the corner, keeping sleep at bay as it puttered away.  
When it was like this, Arthur felt the tension sink from his shoulders. The living night, somewhere between sleeping and waking, the rest of the world was bursting with life, muted through the glass in his apartment. 

The days could go get fucked, he lived for the nights.

When not working, he'd go out to the balcony, a glass of something alcoholic in his hand -neat , he wasn't a savage- and lean on the iron railing, to stare out over the city, feeling a sort of content settling in his chest. 

He slept as dawn crept over the city, and he woke mid-afternoon to a sun-warmed apartment and an inbox full of emails.

The place was decorated surprisingly well for an apartment that Eames owned. It had the sort of sleek, slightly standoffish sytle that Arthur normally liked, but knowing how creative Eames was, the minimalistic feel and dark-coloured furniture felt a little off. Arthur found an ugly quilt somewhere in the city, and it was too-warm and lumpy in the wrong places, but it reminded him of Mombassa, of rough wood floors and the sun shining through cracks in everything. Of white-painted windowsills and the smell of spice and busy streets below.

It was the one splash of colour in the whole apartment of stainless steel surfaces and dark wood flooring. In Seattle, it was a slice of home.

Arthur had been living in Eames apartment for three years.  
But it was still _his_ apartment, and it smelled like him still. Arthur could swear that when the shower filled up with steam, Eames' shampoo lingered in the air. He made coffee, always for two, just in case, and drank the other cup cold. The few books on the bookshelf were still leaning untidily against each other, a spare lemon-yellow shirt hung in the walk-in wardrobe. A teacup mark on the coffee table lingered, burned into the wood. Arthur found the cup that matched the ring and used it constantly. He wouldn't have it any other way.

''You should come back, all that Seattle air isn't good for you.''  
It was pressing 4am, but it was early-morning in Europe, he guessed. Arthur leaned back in his seat til his back cracked, trying to suppress the small grunt of satisfaction that it wrung out of him.  
''I've got business here.'' He lied, and was awarded by a sigh that crackled through his speakers.

''In Seattle? I mean, don't get me wrong, Seattle's fine, but we were all getting the impression that you're being..um...deliberately evasive these days?''

''I'm fine.'' He kept his eyes firmly to the right of the webcam, and the fuzzy pixelated shape on the other end frowned. Well, he assumed thats' what was going on, it was hard to make out. Wi-fi was apparently shit across the pond.

''C'mon man..we haven't seen you since the funeral. We're all.. y'know. Worried.'' They said the words carefully, like they were aware of just how Arthur would have once reacted to the idea of something thinking he was in a state that warranted worry.

''Don't be.'' He let an edge creep into his voice, and the blob that could have been a former co-worker nodded and let it drop. 

''Alright... Well, sunny Europe awaits when you've got enough of rain and Starbucks.''

 

In the night, the endless ennui fit his mood. With the lights off, flat only lit by glowing screens, he felt productive. Awake during the day was nothing short of uncomfortable.  
Eames had been a morning person. Relentlessly cheerful, too-perky, doling-out-coffee-and-chatting-by-himself-til-Arthur-was-awake, sort of morning person. Without him in the flat, days felt like waiting. They felt stagnant and fraught with worry. Every movement at the door was a raised heartbeat, a mental evaluation of where the nearest weapon was stowed.

At night, those problems didn't exist. Nights had a certainty about them.

It was nearing 5am, and he was leaning over his desk, scanning an email from Cobb when the front door clicked open.  
The gun clipped to the underside of the desk was nearby, but Arthur didn't bother. A heavy weight draped over his back. Arms wound around his ribs and a stubbly mess tucked against the crook of his neck with a happy little chuckle.  
''Good to see you up, dear.''

Arthur's felt the smile pull across his mouth, and he absently reached a hand over his shoulder to scratch through the unruly hair that was belonged to the scalp cuddled against his own. There was a tired sigh, and the body melted against his back.  
''That is spectacularly lovely.'' Another sigh tickled his neck, and Arthur shut his laptop, straightening up and turning in the arms around him. Eames fit against him the way napping cats seemed to liquefy and mold themselves around their surroundings, and he wasn't too accommodating to Arthur moving in the slightest, but after a brief struggle, Arthur emerged the victor.

His hands slid over a worn coat that he knew for a fact was in style in the early 70's and had seen better days. But triumphant, he hugged the man close and breathed in the smell of cologne made for a man 30 years older than Eames himself. The smell of home.

''Mr Eames.''

In the darkness their mouths met with a little clumsiness. His lips pressed against to the corner of an stubble-covered upper lip, and he felt it curl up in response.

''God, I've missed you. '' It was a plaintive murmur, Eames pressing against him like there wasn't anywhere else he needed to be. Arthur tried to accommodate him as much as possible, finding his mouth again in earnest.

''It's only been two weeks.''

''Mm. Big talk for a man wearing my socks.'' A small mirthful sound against his mouth. In quiet revenge, Arthur found Eames' ribs and pinched, leading to an indignant squawk.

Eames sounded exhausted. He was nearly swaying on his feet, and after a further brief fight to untangle them, Arthur tugged him in the direction of the bed. 

Still trying to rest his head on Arthurs' shoulder as they walked, Eames tumbled fully-dressed into the bed with a pitiful groan, like he had never seen a bed before in his life. He was still wearing some attempt at shoes, in a brownish colour that had seen better days. Arthur unlaced the shoes and set them on the floor, ignoring the very present smell of feet. 

Eames turned towards him when he slipped into the bed beside him, cuddling up, all endless warmth and affection. Eames radiated heat effortlessly, and Arthur settled in close, tucking a chilled hand under a rumpled vest and pressing against the soft skin there. It was a testament to how much Eames loved him that he didn't move.

''You can go work.'' Eames mumbled, his eyes already closed. Eames was wonderful, Arthur thought a little giddily, feeling his sensible heart overflow with adoration for this rumpled idiot in his bed. The man who hadn't seen him in a fortnight and still offered to lie here alone to let Arthur work. Eames was a tricksy soul, and Arthur would never understand the vast intelligence and pragmatism that was hidden by those jokes and jaunty witticisms, but he could love him anyways, for that big heart that beat inside that awfully-dressed ribcage of his.

''Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.'' He murmured against a warm temple, brushing a strand of fair hair to the side, and Eames huffed a tiny laugh. He gave Arthurs' arm a little squeeze, and then he was asleep.

Mr. Eames was reported dead three years ago after a job in Guadalupe ended rather badly.  
Arthur attended the funeral in black, then packed up and moved to Seattle the after the casket buried.

As it turned out, being a married to a supposedly dead man involved a lot of being covert, and not a lot of spending time with your actual husband. It involved a lot of few-hour meetings and weeks apart.  
It also involved a lot of pretending to be sad on the phone when the 'dead' man in question was somewhere nearby, and mercilessly in tickle mode. But it was worth it, he thought contentedly, lying back on the plump pillows and watching Eames doze, face squished untidily against the pillow.

Arthur lived for the nights. The nights gave him Eames.


End file.
